The Orphans (Book 2): Surviving the Turned

by Evans, Mike

  She could not yet call this place home and knew it would be quite a while before she did. Ellie twisted the metal handle to the side, which raised the two-by-four out of its place. The other locks had been left undone or there would be no way to get back in the cabin, other than through one of the small, ancient, thick windows, which couldn’t even be seen out of.

  She walked out and felt a chill run up her legs and into her back. She didn’t have a watch but could tell from the smell and the coolness of the morning air that it was probably before seven. The sun had just barely started to rise. She watched a light fog drift above the ground and then dissipate. She looked around the clearing; it had few trees, which made seeing fifty yards away relatively easy. In the distance, a doe walked out of the woods. Its head was down as well as its tail. Unlike her, it apparently had no worries in the world at the moment. Everything in its life was still as it was the day before. It knew nothing of the disaster that was America at that point. She knelt down and watched the deer, calming herself. She let the first genuine smile grow on her face, the first smile that wasn’t because someone she knew was still alive and unharmed. No, this smile was because of the peacefulness and relaxation that filled the moment. The smile did not have time to grow any further.

  The deer’s tail raised suddenly, and she knew that the animal had been spooked by something. Ellie stared around the clearing, trying to figure out what had scared the beautiful animal. When she turned back around, she saw a pair of hands reach out from the shadows, gripping the deer by the snout and neck. The hands lifted the deer, which had to be hundreds of pounds, clear off of the ground then smashed its head into pulp against one of the giant oak trees that filled the area. She screamed, burying her hands in her face as she watched the animal’s smooth, brown fur turn red from the blood that flowed from its cracked-open skull.

  The Turned, once a man who looked like any other, had a large bite mark on his forearm and blood that had dried running down his face from his eyes. He buried his face deep into the deer’s brain, gorging on the animal. He then slammed it to the ground and fed on the skull, ripping and clawing at it to get every ounce into his mouth. Pieces fell out of his open mouth as he shoved it in. He growled and snarled with every bite, seemingly angry at the animal itself because he could not fill his mouth any more full.

  Tears ran down Ellie’s face as she stared into the distance. She was paralyzed in fear and shock that they were already there and she was alone. She felt guilty for some reason, as if she should have warned the deer to be on the look out, even though she knew it was idiotic to think that way. She stood slowly and a dry, brittle branch snapped beneath her. She cringed, cursing herself for not being able to be quiet when it mattered the most. The Turned snapped its head up, staring directly at her. As he looked upon his next victim, he twisted his head to the side awkwardly, spilling pieces of brain from his blackened teeth. Knowing the Turned had discovered her, she backed away.

  “Oh shit, oh shit, not good; go back to eating the poor deer, asshole, and I’ll just go back inside and shoot you once I figure out one of those guns.”

  It never rose to its feet; it simply began a leap forward, looking like Wolverine of the X-Men when in attack mode, except it wanted to eat her. Taken by surprise at its inhuman speed, she tripped over her feet as she tried to turn and sprint. She crab walked backward, trying to get enough momentum to get back up to her feet as it covered the distance much quicker than she had hoped for.

  A loud bang went off, followed by a second. The man was knocked off of his warpath toward Ellie. He rolled in a spin and got up, looking more like a wolf crouching on his hands and feet, and stared at its shoulder where it had been struck. Then he put all its weight on its feet, and just as he went to launch, a third shot cracked through the woods and the monster’s head snapped back, a red mist painting the tree behind him with blood, hair, and brain matter.

  Ellie looked in all directions until she heard a whistle come from her right. She snapped her head back to see Greg waving for her to come to him. As she got up, still dazed by what she’d just seen, a hand reached out and gripped his shirt, pulling him sideways off his feet. He screamed in agony; she saw a man dressed in overalls, who barely had half of his neck left, clubbing Greg with a fat mitt of a hand. Greg kicked and screamed, trying to break loose but the man lowered himself and took a chunk from his neck, sealing his fate and future. Ellie screamed, “Oh god no, not Greg!”

  A hand gripped her around the chest from behind. She screamed, bucking her head back and catching the person’s nose with the back of her head. Shaun released his grip, screaming in pain and letting go of her. He pinched his nose to try to keep the blood from going everywhere. Ellie looked him over. She was lost as to what was going on, but she had never been happier to see Shaun in her entire life. She jumped toward him, gripping him in a tight hug. Shaun put his shirt up to his nose, trying to keep the scent of his blood from attracting them. Shaun pushed her back, making a be quiet motion with his hands and pointed toward Greg.

  “They’re here. I don’t know why they came up here, if they smelled the fire last night or what, but we have to get out of here. There’s no telling how many of them will be coming.”

  Ellie’s lip quivered. “Where is everyone else?”

  Shaun shook his head no and bent down to reach the rifle, which he’d dropped when she had broken his nose. A guttural growling came from behind him like an animal who thought its food was being stolen or its young threatened. He dropped onto his stomach, bringing up the rifle in hand, wasting no time. He sighted in on the Turned man that was running in leaps and bounds. Shaun fired once and missed. It got to within fifteen feet then jumped onto a tree branch twenty feet off the ground before leaping straight at Ellie. As it soared her direction, it reached for her, its jaws open wide. Shaun’s gun exploded twice—one after another, his bullets hit; the hate-filled light in the Turned man’s eyes went dark as he soared past Ellie.

  Shaun pushed off the ground, gripping her thin hand tightly. “We gotta go! Come on, Ellie!”

  Ellie didn’t budge from her spot, still staring at the scene and trying not to lose her mind over what was happening. Shaun slung the rifle on his shoulder, gripped her with both hands, and stared into her distant-looking eyes. He shook her. “Ellie… Ellie, snap out of it! We’ve got to go! We gotta go now!”

  She blinked and he knew she was back with him. He gripped her left hand and pulled her as she ran sluggishly behind him. He held his semi-automatic rifle in his right hand by the carry handle. More growling echoed around them. They seemed to be running into a trap or a pit of the things. They sprinted down the hill, tripping and sliding to a stop. They pushed back up to their feet. The sun hadn’t been up long enough to absorb the morning dew and the leaves and grass beneath them were slippery.

  As they ran, Ellie looked across the way and saw four of them feeding next to Tina’s slim form. The area around her leaf-covered body was covered with blood. Ten feet further, she saw three more crouched, and she knew they were feasting on what was left of her group. She opened her mouth to scream, but Shaun gripped a muddy hand around her mouth and whispered in her ear, “You scream and we die. I don’t have enough bullets to take on all of those. I lost my bag up top by the cabin.”

  She closed her mouth, pushing his hand down and taking one last, sad look at what used to be her friends. She knew in a short time that, if the Turned left anything of them, they would likely be one of the dead who would simply see her as a meal, with no memory of who she was to them. The two started running down the hill once more, trying to take their time so as to not fall again.

  Ellie saw that the gravel dirt road below was close and was unsure why that gave her hope, but it did, and she clung to it. Shaun’s face was filled with worry; sweat dripped from both of their dirt-ridden faces. Ellie made it to the road first and turned around, smiling to Shaun, thrilled they’d gotten down alive. She was about to yell that they’d made it when Greg came
out of nowhere with ungodly speed. He jumped on Shaun, knocking him off of his feet and causing his gun to fall to the ground. The two of them spun down the hill, Shaun fighting wildly to keep from being bitten. Shaun’s will to survive was almost enough to keep Greg from winning the battle—but almost was not good enough. Greg bit into Shaun’s shoulder; Ellie and Shaun screamed in unison. His was in pain and hers was out of grief. She had just lost the only thing in the world that she had left.

  Chapter 3: Deja Vu

  Day 2 - The home of retired Colonel Mike Webber

  Mike Webber lay in bed looking at his nightstand. It was exactly 5:30 am; he still couldn’t sleep in, even years after retiring. It didn’t matter how tired he was when he went to bed, but he knew it was the product of a life-long military career. His wife was even worse though. Naomi, who had been the wife of a career military man, had been getting up even earlier all those years, as she was damned if her soldier would go to work in the morning without a full meal in his belly. Mike pushed up from bed and sat, resting his feet on the wood floor. He stretched his back out and felt every mile that he’d hiked in military boots with a pack on his back course down his old spine.

  Mike had been dreaming of that night in the desert… but then, he almost always did. It was something he’d never been able to get over. He thought of the other men and women, long since retired, who were in that room on the night of the outbreak. They had come to the same conclusion that taking them out with the bomb was their only choice—that even as remote as the military base was in the desert, if those things got into the general population, they would decimate everything and everyone in their paths.

  He walked out to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, black. He blew on it, knowing already that it was too hot but still determined to get that first drink in the morning to ignite his senses, hence starting his day. He looked at the kitchen table and saw that it was empty. He then looked at the kitchen, noticing that the sound of bacon frying and eggs cooking were absent and the delicious smells weren’t enticing his nostrils. He walked out and saw his wife, Naomi, sitting on the couch, still in her nightgown with a large, pink robe wrapped around her.

  He approached her, touching her lightly on the shoulder. She jumped with a scream and he stumbled backward, spilling his coffee down his crisp, white shirt and boxers. “Oh, for god’s sake, woman, what the hell has got you so damn jumpy?” He held a hand underneath the cup and placed it back on the counter.

  Naomi said nothing; she just pointed at the television. Mike stared at it and could see nothing. He went back to the bedroom, cursing the entire way and found his glasses. He switched out his shirt and boxers for a clean set, adding a pair of Levi’s to the ensemble. He walked back out and took a seat next to her.

  The CNN channel had eight separate windows up; all showing prerecorded video feed from hours before. Each of the feeds had a video of a large 747 Boeing airplane on it. Each plane was marked, displaying what company they flew for. He watched intently at the security footage from the Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. A man in a red jumpsuit was driving a set of steps up to the side of the plane. In Paris, disembarking passengers were required to walk out and pass the security checkpoints before being allowed into the airport itself. It hadn’t always been that way, but after the events of September 11, very strict rules and policies had become a necessary requirement.

  The man went up the steps, waiting for the door to open before pulling it the extra foot up to the side of the plane. When it did not open, he used the electric controls to pull it up tight next to the airplane and entered his code to unlock the door along with his key. The security cameras were not great, but they captured the very details that the rest of the world needed to know before making their own decisions about it. The ground crew employee peered into the side of the plane and, within a second, the footage showed the pudgy man running back down the steps.

  Naomi yelled a Catholic blessing, unable ever to bring herself to curse, and gripped her husband’s large arm. They both watched the man make it to the bottom of the steps just before an explosion of bodies poured like a disease from the door. Within seconds, the first ones had made it to the bottom of the steps and were instantly on the hunt for fresh meat. The man ran across the open area while a pack of six cut the distance in no time, jumping on his back, and tearing his head and arms off. Blood sprayed everywhere, his legs and the rest of his body convulsed on the ground, and the light-colored cement pooled with blood, creating a lake. The rest of the ground crew, who had been waiting to taxi the plane into a hangar where it would be refueled and checked, ran as well. They might as well have been crawling in comparison to the speed with which the things ran. They were relentless, going after every last one of the men on the ground; fresh pools of blood spread where they lay. By the time the passengers finished with the ground crew, there was not enough left of their bodies to be Turned.

  The next news footage showed the same make and model of plane except this time, there were guards on the ground armed only with pistols. When they opened the door, an onslaught of the Turned sprinted out and the bullets flew. Unfortunately for these guards, a chest shot was in no way a sure thing. As they fired, blood sprayed the side of the plane. The Turned rolled to the bottom of the staircase; the guards approached the plane to try to take control of the situation, but were overwhelmed by the passengers when they jumped to their feet and pounced. The television screen was filled with unimaginable violence as the Turned tore off heads, threw bodies impossible distances, and jumped on them, ripping and clawing viciously into their chests.

  The next footage showed an army with a large row of tanks pointed at the plane. By this time, the other countries had concluded that the things could not be killed. Had they known a good head shot would stop them, perhaps the use of firearms would have been more effective and less bullets would have been wasted. The cameras rocked as a fiery ball, aimed at the massive plane, rose into the air. Before the soldiers could congratulate each other, the first zombie ran through black smoke toward the tanks. Although it was on fire and its skin was burnt to a crispy black, the thing was unhindered. A normal man would have died in the burning rubble, but it sprinted as if it were on a mission, which it was—and it was followed by all the others from the plane who hadn’t been blown to pieces in the blast. They made it to the soldiers, never slowing, even as automatic rifles peppered them with rounds, tearing out their insides. Of the Turned, only those whose legs were shot off or spines shattered fell. Of the men, the only ones who survived were those locked securely in the tanks.

  The news switched to yet another plane of the same make and model. The cameras zoomed in on the pilots, who beat on the cockpit windows frantically; on each plane, they were the only ones who had not Turned. Mike stared at the bottom of the screen and then flipped to another news channel. Across the bottom of all of the screens was a scrolling message stating that the planes were from America and a European outbreak of some virus had begun. Early reports blamed terrorists and the Taliban. Mike looked at his wife with a blank face. “I need to go into work this morning.”

  Naomi stared at him in shock, unable to adjust to from what she was seeing in front of her to what she was hearing from him. “What do you mean you are going to go to work? You don’t go to work anymore; that’s what happens when you retire, dear.”

  Mike rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He was in Washington eight years before when the call from Iraq came through from one of the majors in charge of finding a cure; the purpose of the call was to report a widespread outbreak on base. Mike and the other men and women in charge issued orders to do a fly-by and see what was happening. When the reports of carnage and death were confirmed, they sent hell from the sky to the base, decimating it and leaving nothing but a hole where it once stood. He regretted having to make that decision that evening but knew there wasn’t a choice; if the outbreak were to spread throughout Iraq and eventually Europe, there would be no stopping it.

 
; He looked at Naomi, trying to think of how to tell her that he knew exactly what was going on—or at least had one hell of a hunch about it. Instead he stood, leaned down to kiss her forehead, and disappeared into their bedroom. Minutes later, he came out wearing a uniform that fit a bit more snugly than five years ago, when he had retired—the result of a few less jumping jacks, pushups, and sit-ups as part of his daily regimen. His wife didn’t need further explanation and knew she would not get one; it was just part of the job, retired or not. He’d always be there for his country when it needed him. Naomi also knew that if she asked, there would be no answers. He grabbed a thermos of coffee from her, kissed her cheek, and walked out to his truck where he turned the engine and sped like hell to get to Washington, forty miles away… and more importantly, to the war room.

  Naomi went back into the kitchen, holding herself in a hug and feeling alone all of a sudden. It was not the first time she’d been left home while her husband went to war. But in all her years, which were more than she would like to acknowledge, she had never seen anything as horrific as what she witnessed on the television that day. And she had certainly never worried that the enemy might eat her husband.

  She made her way to the living room, where the news was still streaming the gruesome footage. Unable to watch any more of it, she flipped channels, stopping on a camera feed from the Vatican. She sat back on the sofa, watching thousands of devout Catholics standing in the streets outside, holding candles and praying God would stop whatever was happening. That he would put an end to the suffering. It seemed their prayers would go unheard on this day—a day of death. She changed the channel once more then dropped the remote; the sound of it hitting the wood floor made her jump. The headlines scrolled across the screen in large, bold letters. …OUTBREAK IN AMERICA STAY INDOORS… DO NOT COME IN CONTACT WITH THE SICK AND INFECTED…